


When You Wish

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Q is a fairy, but not the kind you're thinking of, pure unadulterated crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:11:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt - Q is a porn fairy and Bond is the horny man in need of some… assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Wish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [exploding-pens](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=exploding-pens), [Frijae](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Frijae).



> For exploding-pens and Frijae on Tumblr. Thank you, my dears, for the crackfic prompt; you have no idea how much writing this cheered me on a rough day. I hope you both love it! I, on the other hand, am going to a special hell for naming this after an iconic Disney song!

It’s not so much that Bond _can’t_ get off as it is that he’s _bored_ by it.  He’s had his cock in hand for half an hour now, and by this point his only pressing urge is a cigarette and maybe—he shifts his hand a bit, scratching idly, and moves it back—yes, that’s better.  He’s contemplating turning on the telly, but at this time in the afternoon there’s nothing but crap talk shows on, and while the thought of listening to a teenager in Burberry check shouting at his girlfriend that the child’s not his amuses him slightly, it’s also likely to disillusion him of the whole “protecting the Empire” thing he’s quite fond of.  He squeezes.  Yes, still hard.  Ish.  No, still not particularly interested.

“You know, I’ve heard of holding hands for comfort, but this strikes me as a bit out of the ordinary.”  The voice is posh, tilted a little toward arrogant.  Bond would leap up to defend himself, except…well, it’s rather not done to die with one’s hand wrapped around one’s cock.  The owner of the voice comes from behind the couch and he’s young, lovely if a bit too thin.  He’s dressed in a nondescript manner: jacket and slacks; he could be a junior agent except that Bond’s never seen him before in his life.  “Well?  What seems to be the matter then?” the boy asks.  He looks almost smug.

“Matter?” Bond asks, fishing around for his handkerchief to wipe off before tucking himself in.

“Oh, no need to dress on my part.  You’ll just be undressing again in a tic.  Unless you prefer dressed.  Is that what the problem is?”

To speak of tics—Bond’s brow twitches.  “Problem?”

“Yes.  The problem that leads to you fondling yourself while contemplating your apparently terminal boredom.  I don’t want to spoil it for you, but I shall: the baby’s not his.  Can’t be.”  The boy grins.  Bond sighs, placing the remote control on the cushions again.  “Oops, now you’ve nothing to do for it but entertain yourself another way.  Better get that lovely cock out again.”

“You’re a very strange…figment of my imagination,” Bond hazards a guess.  When the boy doesn’t deny this, he continues.  “Has it been so long since I’ve had one off that my mind is creating cheerleaders to help me to it?  You’re a rather attractive cheerleader, I must say.”

“You can think of me as a cheerleader if you like,” the boy agrees genially.  “As for how long since you’ve had one off, I can’t say.  I haven’t a clue, only that you’ve been sitting there with your hand on one of the most impressive cocks I’ve seen in a while looking like you’ve one last chore to do before you’re allowed your pudding.”

“See a lot of cocks, do you?” Bond snipes before he has a chance to think it through.  “What does that say about me that you’re a figment of my imagination?”

“To be fair, I’m a figment of a lot of folks’ imaginations.  They’re not all men, if it comforts you.”

“Oh, I’ve a bisexual imagination then,” Bond says.

“I don’t think I like your tone of voice, Mr. Bond,” the boy retorts, cheeks pinking.

“You know my name.”

“Of course I do.  You think I haven’t read your file before just showing up?  What sort of porn fairy do you take me for?”

“Porn fairy!” Bond says, snorting.  “Good lord, I’ve cracked!”

“There are more things on heaven and earth—”

“A porn fairy!  Reciting _Hamlet_ at me!”

“Fine,” the boy says sharply.  “I hope your balls get so blue they explode.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Bond tells him because, really, for a figment of his obviously cracked imagination, the porn fairy actually is rather attractive.  His dark curls are shaking in agitation, and Bond imagines them spread across his pillow, quivering for another reason.  It’s a pretty picture.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sure you’re a very good porn fairy.”

“I could do things to you that you don’t have words for,” the porn fairy says sullenly.

“I’m sure.  And I’m sure I’d like them very much.”

“You would forget your name.  You’d forget _history_ and the world around you and you would exist in the single moment of orgasm for millennia, lost to the shifting tides of pleasure and helpless to return; you wouldn’t even miss it.”

“Sounds time consuming.”

“I could make you come so hard it felt like your tummy had turned inside out.”

“Well, then.”

“I could,” the porn fairy insists, and based on the wild look in his eyes, Bond has no doubt that he could.

“Are you an incubus or something?” Bond asks.  The porn fairy scoffs.

“Absolutely not!  I’m much better than any incubus!”

“Well, I couldn’t tell.  Right now all you’re doing is talking my ear off.”

That shakes him out of it.  The porn fairy claps his hands briskly, rubbing them together.  “That’s right.  You’re good at distractions, Mr. Bond.”

“James, please,” Bond says.

“James, then,” the porn fairy agrees.

“And what shall I call you?  ‘Figment of my imagination’ is a bit long.”

“I—” the porn fairy stops, flushing.  “I’m really not supposed to.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Bond coaxes.

“Well, it’s not like you’ll remember when we’re done, anyway,” the porn fairy says reasonably.  “Q.  That’s my designation: Q.”

“Q,” Bond says, tasting the name on his tongue.  “Short for—?”

“ _Not_ Cupid.  Just Q,” Q says peevishly, and apparently it’s something that’s come up before.  Bond relaxes into the couch again, lifting out his cock.

“Well then, Q.  Have at me.”

If anything, Q looks scandalized.  “I’m not a ruddy prostitute, James!”

“Sorry if I don’t know how this porn fairy business works, Q!” Bond snaps back, flustered.

“It’s—I’m here for…inspiration.  And assistance, but I’m not supposed to—” Q cuts off, flushing.  It’s adorable.

“Then inspire me,” Bond prompts, smiling. 

“Right!  Just let me—right,” Q says, humming with distraction as he fishes through the bag slung over his shoulder.  Cheering in triumph, he comes up with an impressive array of colored plastics that make Bond blanch.  “What’s your preference, then?  I’ve got internal stimulators, external simulators, plugs with vibration, plugs without vibration, vibration without plugs, magic wands, rubber cocks, and those little balls on bits of string that leave you sore after, but in a happy way.”

“That’s—”

“Oh!  There’s clamps and rings and clips and all sorts of _other_ things here, too, and—”  The bag makes disconcerting clunking noises as Q digs; there shouldn’t be that much room in there, but he’s still pulling things out, chatting about this item or that.

“Q.”

“—and there ought to be a bullet in here somewhere.  Those are _brilliant_ —”

“Q.”

“—I could maybe find a pump, if that’s what you like?  There may be cuffs here, too, though it can be a little bit tricky with cuffs on—”

“Q!” Bond calls finally.  Frankly, he’s a little bit dazzled by the array of toys spread across his coffee table.

“Hmm?” Q asks, glancing back at Bond with eyes wide and eager behind his glasses.  “Did you have an idea?”

“This is all a bit much,” Bond says desperately.

“Oh.  Oh!  I should have realized: you’re more of a traditional sort of fellow, aren’t you?  I can—”  Q makes a vague hand gesture and Bond considers himself lucky that he’s already cracked, because otherwise he would have a magical porn fairy materializing women in his flat.  She’s very pretty, honestly, and obviously flexible in a way that makes him wonder if she perhaps medals for the Imaginary English in gymnastics, and when she puts her fingers—his cock gives a little, interested lurch at the sight.  Q makes an encouraging motion with his fist which.  Bond chuckles, then laughs outright, desire for the girl fizzling on the spot.  Q looks disappointed for a moment before popping back up.  “Someone else, then?”  And then the girl’s a pretty boy, strong-featured but pretty; he’s got a long cock that leans slightly, its flushed head an arrow pointing vaguely at his left nipple.  When he gives it a stroke, Bond sighs and sinks into the seat because _yes_ , this will do.

Except no.  Q’s watching both of them masturbate with an interested expression, and Bond can’t help but be taken by his pink lips and the tongue that darts between them.  He tries to shake it off, but even with his cock bared and eager, the conjured boy can’t hold Bond’s interest.  “This isn’t working, Q,” Bond says finally, and Q sighs.

“I thought not.”

“I’m sorry.”  It’s the damnedest thing: he really is.  Q vanishes the boy with a wave and plops down on the couch next to Bond.  “You won’t be in trouble if I don’t come, will you?” Bond asks, curious.

“No, nothing like that,” Q says.  “I just.  I ought to be able to make it happen.  You don’t have some sort of disorder, do you?” he asks suspiciously and Bond laughs, startled.

“No, no.  Nothing like that.”

“Then how are you still hard?  Toys didn’t do it for you, girls didn’t do it for you, boys didn’t do it for you…,” Q trails off, obviously frustrated.

“Your mouth,” Bond confesses. 

“What?”

“Your mouth.  That’s how I’m still hard: you keep licking, chewing your lip, sucking—every time I think of becoming interested in something else, you do something and all I can think of is you sucking me, your hands on me, your body.”

Q is silent for a moment.  Bond’s sure he’s blown it until—“I’m really not supposed to,” Q murmurs, cheeks bright.  “Not…not at all.  But.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Bond repeats and suddenly he’s got a lapful of Q squirming against him, worming his narrow hands beneath Bond’s shirt and rocking his hips into Bond’s enthusiastically.

“It’s not—I’m not touching you, really,” Q says earnestly, eyes fixed between their bodies to the streaks of precome Bond is leaving on his clean trousers.  “I’m just.  Encouraging you from very close.”

“Very, very close,” Bond agrees.  “And being oh, so very encouraging.”  Q’s skin is soft salt beneath his tongue as he sucks a mark against his throat.  There’s a fine grain to his trousers where it rubs bruises into the tender skin of his cock, catching on the foreskin to peel it back in shocking bursts of pleasure that leave him shivering; Q covers his head with his arms and kisses at the crown until Bond is gasping against him, stunned and oversensitive and come-drunk.  “You’re beautiful,” he whispers into Q’s collarbones and Q holds him until the shaking stops. 

“I—that was very quick, there, in the end,” Bond finally manages, tenderly scooping himself back into his pants.  “Sorry.”

“No, it was lovely,” Q says, eyes crinkling with pleasure.  He wiggles his hand at his front and the come stains are gone; Bond finds he misses them, which is strange.  “I,” Q starts, smiling sad.  “This is the part where I usually erase your memory of me and replace it with one of you wanking.”

“Don’t?” Bond asks, sudden and surprised with himself.  “Please.”

“No worries,” Q agrees, smiling.  “You can keep a secret, I’m sure.”  On impulse, Bond reaches up to pull him down by his tie; the kiss is lingering, sweet.  It doesn’t so much end as fade, and Q is already gone by the time Bond realizes he’s closed his eyes.

::

“Again?”

Bond’s had himself in hand for less than five minutes, but he’s been daydreaming all day about Q’s lovely arse.  He jumps, nonetheless; Q’s not supposed to be here.

“Thinking of you,” Bond tells him, and Q smiles. 

“Oh, really?”  He hums as Bond pulls him in close, eyes drifting closed when Bond sucks an earlobe into his mouth.

::

It takes Bond only once more to figure out the trick of summoning him, and less time than that to abuse it.  Q stamps his foot in the silly little shoes indignantly.

“I won’t have it, James.  I’m not some sex-doll for you to beckon when you want to get laid!” he snaps.  Bond, meanwhile, is staring—

“What the hell are you wearing?”  It’s.  Well, most things on Q are attractive—he’s got a particularly pleasing memory of him rolling around in Bond’s bed wearing nothing but one of Bond’s shirts barely held closed with a button, hand wrapped around himself and knees trembling as Bond knelt overhead and stroked himself at the sight—but Bond can honestly say his imagination has never taken him here; this sort of costume has always struck him as uninspired, lazy manufactured sexuality packaged for people with no creativity.  There’s something to be said for the little crease left behind in the skin above Q’s knee where the stocking’s elastic cuts in, and the tulle skirt is nearly tantalizing in that he can’t quite tell if Q is wearing pants or knickers, but altogether it’s not his style.  “You look cheap,” he says, voice flat.

“Charles liked it well enough,” Q sniffs, and for a moment Bond’s vision goes blank and still.  He feels inexplicably stupid for the first time, cock out and wilting fast.

“You were—”

“Busy, yes!” Q snaps, and Bond shrinks, frowning.  His movements are brusque, jerky as he stuffs himself away.

“My apologies,” he manages barely, tone as droll as he can make it as he flips on the telly and lets the first screeching sounds of some truly rubbish show wash over them.  “I hadn’t realized.  I’m not even interested anymore—that _trash_ you’re wearing has put me off—so feel free to resume what you were doing before I called.  It won’t happen again.”

“James.”

The telly is loud, and by the time Bond can bring himself to look away, Q’s gone.

::

It’s not quite normal for a man Bond’s age to have nocturnal emissions; he’s been so frustrated that M’s sent him home with explicit instructions to “find a suitable outlet, or if applicable, _inlet_ ”, and the pressure’s nearly a dull ache these days, but he won’t—can’t—handle it himself.  He doesn’t trust himself not to fantasize about Q, and the last thing he wants is for Q to show up looking like somebody else’s porn fairy, dressed as some other person’s fantasy and smelling like their desire.  He’s about to throw himself into yet another cold shower when the doorbell rings.

It gives him pause; there’s a very short list of people who know where he lives and fewer still who would make the effort.  He tugs the sash of his dressing gown tighter—it’s not like the cold shower is going to run any colder if he waits—and pulls open the door.

His first impression is an earnest uni student wrapped in a cardigan and trousers too big for the slender hips.  Scuffed trainers toe the floor by the baseboards and he lets his eyes trail up the long lines until he’s reached Q’s flushed face.  “I don’t touch them,” Q blurts, eyes miserable.  “Not like I not-touch you.”

“You’d better come in before the neighbors think I’ve taken to hiring underage rent boys,” Bond says, lips quirking at Q’s flustered glance over his shoulder.  He steps aside to let him in and then, because this is Q, who’s seen him—and who knows how many other people, really?—naked half a dozen times, drops his dressing gown and heads into the bathroom.  Q follows like a puppy.

“I didn’t mean,” Q says and Bond snorts.  “Jesus, it’s freezing in here.”

“It’s nothing to worry about.  I overstepped,” Bond says, tapping the dial until the water begins to heat.  There’s no sense in punishing himself, after all; he doubts a cold shower would work with Q standing on the other side of the frosted glass.

“It’s my fault.  I’m not supposed to,” Q says softly, shifting in the growing steam.  “It leads to entanglements.”

Entanglements.  That’s a pretty word for it, Bond muses dryly.  “You don’t have to explain yourself, Q.”

“I do, though!  Because I don’t,” Q says, and Bond can hear the flustered rush of his words under the pouring water.  “I _don’t_ ; I swear I don’t touch them.  Not the way I do it with you.”

The images his words bring to mind are pretty in the steam.  Frotting, masturbating, necking like teenagers on his bed for hours until they both come in their pants; his cock roars to attention, neglect thumping in the head like a pulse.  “Well, I’d imagine you have to pace yourself.”  The words sting even in his ears; he won’t look to see how they’ve landed.  “You knocked this time.”

“I’m not working today.”  Q’s voice is closer than he expects, near enough to catch him off-guard.  Bond turns and Q’s in the shower with him, gloriously bare and shivering a little.  His face is soft without his glasses, and when he captures Bond’s mouth in a kiss, they finally, _finally_ touch.


End file.
